shining quietly like a teardrop

Here's an Iain Crichton Smith verse, as taken from the pictured 1992 collected poems:


The Black Chest

When I opened the black chest there it was —
the pure diamond of the sweet alas
shining quietly like a teardrop.

In the distance I could hear
the fall of great houses, and the fire
of will clashing in a new idea.

And also I could hear the scurry
of mice around the big tree
whence the cat glared down with green eyes.

Nevertheless there was a fragrance
from the black box: and a consonance
breathing from the lucky perfume,

though the gaunt face of the actor glowered
and among, the waste moors shook the white beard
of the mad king, unfriended and defunct,

and though from the black box she rose
with white wings, throwing away her purse
of contradictions, and her candid verse.

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Iain Crichton Smith (1928 - 1998)

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